


To Arms

by Tanabeth



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-03
Updated: 2013-10-03
Packaged: 2017-12-28 04:50:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/987868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tanabeth/pseuds/Tanabeth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil is obsessed with Clint's arms.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Arms

Phil is obsessed with Clint’s arms. 

It’s a cliché, he knows; it’s frustrating to be such a stereotype. It annoys him, the way his mouth goes dry when he sees Clint in the black leather vest SHIELD has seen fit to provide him with. Phil prefers to defy expectations, but his sexual fantasies about Clint are almost tedious. 

If Clint wasn’t an archer, perhaps it would be acceptable. It would simply be a quirk of his particular sexual psyche, to be aroused by Clint’s forearms, exposed in a white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, or to feel his stomach flip in the most pleasurable way when Clint, casual in a t-shirt, puts his hands behind his head in a meeting, exposing the brute strength of his upper arms: their sheer dimension. 

But Clint is an archer, a sharpshooter, and Phil hates to be predictable. 

It is not, after all, as though Phil is any stranger to beautiful bodies. He has spent an abnormally large amount of time around nearly perfect physical specimens, both male and female, many of whom have supernaturally well-toned arms. Hell, Phil has seen a Norse god unclothed, and that was something to see. Thor should, logically, produce the same effect on Phil—his musculature is impeccably sculpted, biceps enormous from wielding his hammer. Yet, for some reason, it is only the memory of Clint that keeps Phil up at night. 

Phil tries to get over it. He dates swimmers and rock climbers and drummers and he enjoys it, enjoys the strength of their arms under him, over him, in his bed. He does. Yet none of it changes the fact that he still wants Clint, and he doesn’t think he’s going to get over it. 

Phil has long ago vowed not to date at work, and he doesn’t think Clint knows how he feels; he doesn’t imagine that Clint would be interested if he did. Phil knows what he is, and while he’s fully aware of his worth, he’s aware that people like Clint and Natasha live life on a different kind of scale. He’ll have to get over it. 

-

It happens after a mission briefing, one night. Phil and Clint are assigned a fairly routine target, but the Powerpoint presentation is interminable. At one point, Clint sits back in his chair, crosses his arms over his chest. Phil’s eyes go to his biceps, his forearms; his mouth goes dry. Just for a second—one impossibly small moment, he thinks—his eyes betray his thoughts. If he had been looking at any other man, it would have gone unnoticed. 

But Clint is a sharpshooter. 

And before Phil can lift his gaze, Clint’s eyes flicker up. Phil reflexively jerks his look away, but it’s too late. Before he can tuck the lust away, Clint’s eyes meet his. Guilty. 

It’s a dead-give away, and Clint’s eyes widen, just a tiny bit. 

Phil is caught, and he’s not sure what to do about it. 

_

A week later, Clint shows up at his house at night. Phil is not worried; his personal security may be tight, but Clint is something … out of the ordinary. If he wants to find someone, he can do it. And Phil doesn’t think Clint is angry about the incident, just confused. So he lets Clint in, and asks him if he wants a drink. 

Clint shrugs, says “Sure.”

He’s cagey, his eyes darting around the room, looking for the high ground. Phil gives him a beer. They sit down, and make desultory conversation about work, about the weather.

Phil always thinks that the direct approach is best, especially if it’s unexpected. So he says, “The way I looked at you last Monday in our briefing was inappropriate. I’m sorry if it made you uncomfortable.” 

Clint almost chokes on his beer, and his fingers twitch, as it he’s searching for the reassuring weight of a bow. “That’s not—“ 

Phil, wary, says, “That’s why you came here, isn’t it.” It’s not a question. 

Clint looks at him, really looks at him, for the first time. When their eyes meet, Phil is, for the first time that night, uncertain what it is that he sees there. He lifts his practically empty beer to take another drink, an obvious tell, and looks away, slightly shaken. Phil gets up, muttering some inanity about getting another beer, trying to recalibrate his understanding of the situation, but then, before he knows it, Clint is invading his personal space. 

He’s on the defensive immediately, unconsciously, his mind clicking through Clint’s weaknesses and his assets—the beer bottle, Clint’s breath, too quick—before he consciously assesses the situation, and forces himself to relax. He doesn’t think Clint has any intention of hurting him. 

Clint says, “You’re not wrong.” And then Phil is being kissed, comprehensively. 

Whatever fallout Phil had expected from that moment of oversight, that brief lapse in control in their last meeting, it was not this. He kisses back, before he can decide that this whole thing is a bad idea. 

Clint controls the kiss, and for the moment, Phil lets him; he lets Clint back him up against the wall, kiss the underside of his jaw, his neck, and as Phil is staring at the ceiling, things seem to slow down, almost like a combat situation, his mind clicking through just what’s happening. 

1\. Clint knows about, and is acknowledging, Phil’s desire for him. 

2\. Clint is kissing him, like he’d very much like to do more. 

3\. Phil is enjoying it. Far too much.

Clint’s arms are around him, pulling him closer, and Phil’s neat little list breaks down. He is wearing the soft white t-shirt that makes Phil’s stomach twist with want every time he sees it, and before he knows it, he is running his hands up and down Clint’s impossibly solid biceps, and Clint’s is stroking his way up underneath his un-tucked dress shirt, resting his hands on Phil’s hips. 

Phil pulls away slightly, and says, “I take it that ‘uncomfortable’ was not the right adjective there.” 

Clint’s face is buried in the crook of Phil’s shoulder, but he feels the smile, hears it, when Clint says, “Not so much.” 

Phil takes a deep breath, and says, “Have you fully considered—“ 

Clint kisses him again, deeper, the scrape of his stubbled cheeks against Phil’s mouth making him breathless. 

“Are you saying,“ Clint asks, that note of amusement still in his voice, “that you believe me to be a man who makes unconsidered decisions?” 

Phil says nothing, and then Clint says, low, voice turning more serious, “I’ve spent plenty of time thinking about this.” His hands on Phil’s hips slide lower, pulling Phil towards him, and he can feel that Clint wants this—wants, for some reason, what he saw in Phil’s eyes that day. 

Phil knows he shouldn’t take it—too many possible complications—but he also knows that he does not give even one tiny fuck right at that moment. 

He goes for it. 

-

They end up on Phil’s couch again, like teenagers making out for the first time. And it’s ridiculous—another cliché—but it’s almost reminiscent of a first time all over again: desire mixed up with a desperate fear of fucking it all up. 

Clint strips him of his shirt with a brutal efficiency, and Phil is just as eager to get Clint’s clothes off. It’s only fair. The sculpted perfection of his chest strikes Phil as slightly unreal, like a scene from a bad porno, and Phil suppresses a strange urge to laugh. He may have seen it all before, but it’s very different now. When it’s Clint.

Clint reaches for Phil’s zipper, kissing him again, and slips his calloused fingers into Phil’s pants, stroking him surely.

He mumbles into Phil’s shoulder, “This OK?” 

“I find this entirely acceptable, Agent Barton,” Phil deadpans, and startles a laugh out of Clint. 

Phil can’t help but kiss him again, after that, licking into Clint’s mouth with something approaching desperation. He’d been thinking about this for way too long. 

Clint groans into his mouth, and says, quick and low, and suddenly serious, “Just let me do this.” 

Before Phil can so much as raise his head, much less protest (not that he has any intention of doing so), Clint has divested him of his pants and his underwear and is trailing a long string of kisses down Phil’s chest. Phil gasps at the feel of Clint’s mouth, stopping briefly just below his navel, making his stomach jump and tighten with anticipation, hope, desperation. 

His cock is hard, bumping at Clint’s chin, but Clint isn’t moving, seemingly content to press biting kisses to Phil’s lower belly. Phil’s mind starts working again, wondering at Clint’s earlier urgency. He says, somehow managing to keep his voice perfectly steady, “You could just come back up here and kiss me.” 

Clint looks up at him, sharply, and then breaks into a smile, shaking his head. “You think I don’t want to do this? Jesus.” 

He puts his head back down and fits his mouth – perfectly, perfectly – over Phil’s dick. Phil grabs the back of the couch with one hand, a handy pillow with the other, and manages not to whimper. It rapidly becomes clear that Clint does, in fact, want to do exactly what he is doing. His eyes are closed, a look that Phil can only categorize as ‘blissful’ on his face. 

It’s a messy blow-job, nothing precise about it, and Phil is almost surprised. In the field, Clint’s motions are always so perfectly controlled, every smooth flex of his arms deliberate, the result of more hours of practice than Phil can imagine. But this—Phil looks down, at Clint practically drooling around his cock, pulling off to let Phil’s dick rub slick trails up his cheeks, smiling almost ruefully at Phil before he takes him in his mouth again, goes down on him so far that Phil can almost feel the back of his throat, the warm tightness of it almost too much to take. 

Phil throws his head back, unable to look any further, and takes a deep breath, only realizing then that he’d been murmuring Clint’s name like some kind of demented benediction. 

He forces one cramped hand open and off the back of the couch, where he’d practically dented the fabric, and allows himself the pure unmitigated pleasure of weaving his fingers gently through Clint’s hair. He’s careful not to—to push, but the connection feels so good. Clint, kneeling next to him on the ground, mouth still busy, reaches up and grasps Phil’s other hand, a steady reassuring touch, and Phil’s hand clenches his spasmodically, trying not to come. 

He tries to think. What does he want? If this is his only chance—it may not be, but go with the worst case scenario. If this was to be all he would ever get, what would he want out of this encounter? What would he want to remember?

That’s an easy one. 

“Clint,” he says, his voice sounding strange to his own ears, “I would like you to fuck me.” 

Clint’s head shoots up, and he stares at Phil wide-eyed, his mouth hanging slightly open, his lips red and wet. 

Fuck, Phil thinks. ‘Would like’ was probably a bit of an understatement. 

He pulls Clint up and back onto the couch, kissing him like a drunk, his coordination still not fully up to par, his cock still hard, and Clint’s own erection, thank Christ, pressed against his thigh, a thick solid line of heat that makes Phil want to beg for it. 

Clint says, in his ear, “Let me take you to bed,” and Phil’s cock jerks against his stomach. 

_

In Phil’s large and considerably more comfortable bed, Clint opens him up slowly, his fingers confident. Phil is absurdly grateful for his surety, no longer fully capable of coherent persuasion. He grabs at Clint’s shoulder and groans, embarrassingly loud. Clint is panting against his knee, pressing kisses to whatever skin he can reach, and then he reaches for a condom, slicking himself up, and says, again, “Okay?” 

But this time, Phil has more or less lost his capacity for witty banter, and he just nods, half-frantic, and then lets his eyes slide shut with the pure pleasure of Clint’s cock, opening him up. 

He’s big and impossibly warm, a solid presence over Phil’s body. Clint murmurs his name, inhaling sharply, and pushing in slow, slow, slow, and carefully, as if Phil is something that he needs to be careful with, not a highly experienced SHIELD agent with years of experience and a long list of sexual partners. 

Phil kind of likes it. 

Still, he pulls Clint down over him, encouraging him to move faster. Clint is still careful—he breaks his fall, holding himself up, hovering over Phil, as though he’s unwilling to make Phil take his whole weight. 

It’s true that Clint would be heavy—he’s pure muscle, built as solid and compact as a bulldog, for all that he scales buildings with impossible grace—but Phil thinks he wouldn’t mind. 

For now, though, Phil is content to pull Clint’s head down to him, to kiss him while he feels Clint’s solid cock filling him up. Clint himself is panting into his mouth, and Phil takes a moment to glory in the animal pleasure of conquest. Then he tells Clint to start moving. 

Clint obeys, still slow and cautious, ‘til Phil starts to let his pleasure show, pushing back onto Clint’s every thrust, pulling him closer with hands at his waist. He hits just the right spot, and Phil makes a very nearly embarrassing noise. Clint groans, says, “You—" and drops his head down, nuzzling Phil’s neck, his arms still holding him up, protecting Phil. He feels first a surge of tenderness that surprises him, and then, as Clint starts to fuck him in earnest, he grabs at Clint’s magnificent arms, running his hands up and down his shoulders, his biceps, his gorgeously muscled back and stops thinking altogether. 

Clint gives it to him until he doesn’t need it anymore, and then, perceptive as always, comes, shuddering, half-collapsing onto Phil at last. He rests only for a moment, and then, with a recovery that astonishes Phil, he goes down on him again, sucks Phil’s half-hard dick until he’s biting his own hand not to scream with the pleasure of it, self-control gone, and Clint lets him come in his mouth, swallows him down. 

They don’t talk afterwards, and Phil, unable for once to come up with a coherent plan of action, says nothing, does nothing, just falls asleep. When he wakes up, Clint is still there, fast asleep, a heavy arm thrown over him. 

This might be a mistake, he thinks, but he’ll never regret it.

\- 

When Clint finally wakes up, Phil is already dressed, his neatly ironed button-down shirt and slacks compensating for what Phil uneasily realizes is nerves. He’s made pancakes and coffee and just begun to set the table—wondering if setting it for two is too presumptuous—when Clint wanders into the kitchen, wearing only jeans and with adorably mussed hair. 

Clint looks at the table, and then at him, and observes, mildly, “This wasn’t how I expected this morning to go.” Then he kisses Phil, says, a smile in his voice, “But it works for me.” 

Phil finds out what else Clint’s biceps are good for, and they almost forget about breakfast entirely.


End file.
